The Confidant
by Cohen101
Summary: People had laughed here. People had fought here. People had cried here. People had died here. And She watched it all.


A/N: Just a little one-shot I wrote in a couple hours cause I was procrastinating on homework. Spoilers up to What Kate Did, post-island fic. Needed to get this idea out of my head, and don't worry, I'll finish my other fiction, Out of the Greenwoods. I haven't abandoned it.

The italics are from the Episodes as follows:  
-Pilot  
-Outlaws  
-What Kate Did x2  
-Deux ex Machina  
-Do No Harm

Disclaimer: Don't own Lost. Borrowing the characters from ABC and whoever else owns them. But I do own this idea, and the characters not in the show.

**-The Confidant-**

I set foot on the beach of the deserted island, and an ominous feeling draped around me.

People had laughed here.

People had fought here.

People had cried here.

People had died here.

People had Lost themselves here.

People had Found themselves here.

My hair prickled. Maybe it was because of the stories, or maybe it was because I'd just come from a hot shower in the ships cabin, but whatever it was, it chilled me to the bone, made my insides turn cold. A wind ruffled my hair, weaving through it down to the very root. There was something 'off' about this island, something that made me sure I wouldn't want to re-visit. Bits of metal littered the beach, too numerous and small for them all to be picked. I pictured the front-page color photo of the huge fuselage, lodged into the sand before me. It'd been taken away a long time ago; the only trace of its existence a large but slight indentation in the ground.

I remembered obsessing about it as a child, collecting everything; newspaper clippings, interviews, even two books a man called John Locke had written. One of the books had been a complete journal to the days spent on the island, though I doubt it was complete. One castaway had mentioned something about a monster, but the government had hushed it. Everyone had since then forgotten about it; all but me. Setting foot on the island made me think that the monster hadn't been made up. It sure felt like there was a monster residing there.

Crap-hole Island, a survivor had called it. Make-me-rich Island I had called it. Now I wasn't so sure.

"Common Peter." I felt a hand tap my back, giving me a little push forward. I snapped out of my zone-out, and smiled at my partner briefly. This had been my idea after all.

"What do you think? Can we make something of it?" he asked, grinning widely. He saw the same thing I saw; alluring rock formations to the left that elegantly and subtly changed into a captivating complexion of trees and bush. The beach stretched to the right as far as the eye could see, its fine sand sparkling radiantly in the sun. "We'll have to clean this up," he continued, waving a beefy hand absently at the small debris left behind from the wreckage, "but what do you think?"

I didn't turn to him immediately to answer, but took more time to take in the scenery. A crew had arrived after the survivors had gathered their belongings and left. There was nothing but small metal. He maybe saw the same thing as I, but he didn't feel the same thing.

"I think it'll be awesome!" I answered him with false enthusiasm, hoping it would pass. He took no notice and didn't probe, but instead wrapped an arm around me and laughed.

"Well then, I'll go back to the ship, and you wander around, see what you can scrounge up," he winked gleefully and laughed.

I didn't answer him, but walked away, looking at the ground, examining it to see if there was something that I could find. The little kid in me took over, eagerly anticipating the uncovering of some artifact that I would be able to add to my collection, the one now sentenced to a lifetime in a box.

As I reached the edge of the dazzling forest, I saw something poking stubbornly out of the ground. Crouching down to get closer, I realized it was a pilot's wing. Every pilot received them at graduation, a symbol they wore proudly on their chest. As long as they hand their wing, they would be safe. At least, that's what they said. Guess it didn't work to well for this pilot. I reached out for the badge, letting my fingertips grasp the smooth hard metal.

I wondered what kind of story it held. Why was it not attached to the pilot suit, and why was it not with him? What had happened to the pilot, and how had he died? The survivors had once said they found the pilot in the cockpit, deep inside the jungle. If that was true, then why was his wing all the way out by the beach? I rubbed my thumb across it, rubbing the dirt off, only to find corrosion had started its cycle, beginning from years and years embodiment with the sand.

"_Did you see it?"_

"_No. It was right behind me, but I dove into the bushes."_

"_Guys, how does something like that happen?"_

I stood up and looked around alarmed. I heard two guys, one British, and a girl whispering somewhere near me. I looked back at the ocean, but the ship was farther away then I had first thought it to be. I took one last look at the wing and stuffed it into my pockets. I was probably just tired. That's why I heard whispers. I was just tired.

I walked along the perimeter of the brightly colored jungle, wandering further and further away from the ship. I swiped at leaves that hung from trees, annoyingly tickling my face. Thus far, the trip to the legendary island had not been what I had expected it to be. There was no remaining evidence that people had actually lived here for three and a half months. Only the odd charred log scattered here and there on the beach, but years and years of being abused by weather, heat, humidity, predators and sun must have eroded anything the crew had left away into oblivion. I found myself wondering if dust existed on islands.

The sand jutted out into the jungle in the shape of a peninsula and I stopped. Tall grass up to my elbow swallowed it up, indicating over two decades of abandonment. I looked back from where I'd come from, but was now completely invisible to the ship, and it to I. A reckless sense of spirit overcame me, and I pulled out a small bush knife, entering the path, cutting the grass as I went along. The grass soon thinned out, and I was amazed at how such tall grass could grow in such a little area.

The dark canopies of the trees covered me from the suns deadly UV, only allowing the occasional thin ray through, before a breeze ruffed the leaves, cutting that ray off and creating another spot in which a beam of light could escape through. It was peaceful, though the sickening ominous feeling I felt when I first set foot on the island was still present. The path was hard to follow, and was barley a path at all. Trees cropped up at random intervals, and the vastness of the jungle soon overwhelmed me. It was difficult to think that this was someone's home for any duration of time, that they'd given up hope and begun calling this place home.

"_Your sick."_

"_I didn't hurt it."_

"_Find your own way home."_

I stopped short and looked around alertly.

"Whose out there?" I called out, proud that my voice wasn't shaking like J-ello, because I knew that's how my legs felt. This time the whispers sounded like the same lady I heard before, but the guys voice was different. It wasn't British, it was Southern. I swallowed, and the sound seemed to echo throughout the jungle. I waited for a minute, but nothing happened. It's because I'm tired, I reassured myself firmly. My mind began to wander, my feet taking me to no set destination.

How could you come to call such a place your home? I didn't think I could ever get used to the oddness of it all, the distant sound of trickling water, splashing waves. I stopped for a moment, and noted the difference between the two. How much the survivors must have learned, having no choice of their own in what happened to them. Did they ever stop and listen to the difference between trickling water and splashing waves? What would someone do on an island such as this throughout the day? There were the obvious answered, like chop wood for fires, collect fruit and food to eat, fill up water for others. But did they ever get bored?

I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere in my wandering; sand suddenly appeared at my feet and the jungle had melted away. I had arrived back at the beach. I gazed around, trying to obtain my bearings, but it was hopeless. I hadn't walked to the other side, I hadn't been walking long enough to accomplish a task like that. An object stuck out from the jungle, clashing with the natural up-down setting of it. I walked towards it a bit apprehensive.

I left the sandy divider between water and jungle and walked a little ways into the woods. The trees thinned almost immediately, and parted to create a huge clearing that was on a meter high plateau. Tropical trees surrounded it, and its mouth opened to the ocean. There were two mounds in the middle, and I realized why it had seemed so out of place.

At the foot of each mound stood a cross, crudely made with two sticks and a tie of blackened matter. I drew in my breath, and stared at the image for a moment. The dirt was piled up high, and the crosses looked ancient. I crept closer, afraid of making too much sound. I spied a rock right by the mounds, and went to sit on it, quietly and somberly.

The island itself had an apocalyptic vibe. But this burial ground had a silent, mourning semblance of a funeral memorial, although no others were present. I read the signs, taking in the names:

'_Shannon Rutherford'_

'_Boone Carlyle'_

I recognized the names as two of the few people that died on the island. According to newspaper accounts, Jack Shepard, a spinal surgeon, had kept them all alive and in good health. I bent my head down; paying my silent respects to the people I'd only heard about. Looking up at the names, I stared at the scratches that connected and made up each individual's name. I realized that this place would have to be preserved. I stared hard at the three jagged lines that made up the S in Shannon.

'_1984 - 2004'_

With a shudder I realized that she'd been only twenty years old when she had died. She'd only lived twenty years of her life before, zap. She died. She died eight years younger then I was now. Twelve years after her death, I had turned as old as she was when she died.

"…_and I were strangers. We never would have met if-- We wouldn't even have spoken if-- But we did meet and we did speak. At least---- I loved her."_

"_May she rest in peace."_

The whispers were back, and this time I shot up from my sitting position, holding the small bush-cutter knife high in front of me. The man I had first heard in the whispering had come back, and I tensed up my whole body. There was more then one person, and I was pretty sure that the odd-man advantage would be more help to them then any knife would ever be to me. I abruptly found myself wishing I had taken those self-defense classes my brother badgered me to accompany him to.

"I can hear you, so why don't you just come out and show yourself!" I yelled into the jungle, slightly hysterical. I heard a single twig break behind me.

No rustling of leaves, no crunching of grass. Just a single twig, snapping solidly in half behind me. It was the only time in my life I'd heard such an isolated sound. Gripping the knife handle tighter, I turned around slowly, bracing myself.

An inch away from my face, standing, anchored firmly to the ground, was a pitch-black stallion. He looked at me calmly, like encountering a human was a daily occurrence in his life. What surprised me the most was not how calm he was, or how still he seemed to be standing, nor the fact that he -a fully-grown stallion horse- was standing in front of me.

Looking into the eyes of the animal, I realized that animals had emotions, thoughts, and feelings just as humans did. There's may be not be as advanced or intelligent as a human beings, but they were still thinking, breathing beasts. They had opinions as well. His eyes were full of energy; that of a happy soul that had just told his best friend that all was forgiven and they were still to be the best of buds. His nostrils flared in a close shut rhythm, and he tilted his head to the side. I understood that he wanted me to touch his nose, but I hesitated. I had heard voices and all that could be seen was a horse.

No, the strangest thing about it all, the most surprising thing, was that when I tentatively reached out my hand, and placed it trembling on the horses nose, he was cold to the touch. I stroked him, pulling my hand downwards in the same direction that his brittle hair grew. Still, he was cold. I lowered my bush-cutter, and positioned my hand on his cheek. All if could feel was cold.

"_You see that?"_

"_If you mean the big ass horse standing in the middle of the jungle, then yeah."_

The whispers this time I identified as the Southerner's and the woman's. I was going crazy.

I swear that the horse was laughing at me. I could see it in his eyes, the way the light danced around them, gleaming them in a playful pattern. The horse was laughing at me. With an unexpected snort, he pulled his head away from my hand, and walked backwards slowly for a short distance, teasing me. Finally, he turned and left.

Just as silently as he had come.

The encounter left me shell-shocked. Had what I just experienced been real? What was with the whispers? And why did I keep hearing them? Did they mean anything, or was it just I, going crazy? Feeling oddly elated, I glanced around quickly in paranoia, and sat back down on the rock. I dismissed the horse and the whispers as wisps of my imagination, due to lack of sleep, even though I'd gotten a full ten hours every night since we'd left port. But I could still feel the peculiar coldness of the four-legged beast, and I felt deep down that the whispers meant something.

I stared at the cross that was labeled as '_Boone Carlyle', _noticing for the first time that there was a pink and white rosary hanging off the left side of the horizontal segment of wood. I wasn't much of a religious person, but I knew a rosary when I saw one. I felt drawn to it. I leaned over and touched the small beads with my fingertips.

"_Hello. We're the survivors of the crash of Oceanic Flight 815, please copy."_

"_Boone, get out!"_

_"Hello. We're the survivors of Oceanic Flight 815."_

After the whispers were done this time, the dreadful sound of metal scraping against stubborn rock entered my head. Wood cracked thunderously loud, and a single screeching could be heard until the metallic sound became a gigantic crunch as it sounded like metal was folding over metal. I clamped my ears shut, trying to drown the sound out, but it came from inside me head.

The sound stopped as suddenly as it had begun. I could only hear the calm waves, until a deathly weak and cracked voice whispered,

"_I know you made a promise. I'm letting you off the hook. Let me go, Jack."_

My heart froze. It felt like a knife had been plunged into the icy depths of the artic circle, then inserted roughly into my heart. In all my years, before and after the expedition to the island, I hadn't heard a voice quite like his. He sounded so hopeless; helpless. So knowledgeable, and yet accepting. It crushed my heart. My only comfort was the fact that it might have been all in my imagination, my own mind turning against me and mocking me. I just hoped that it wasn't real, that it didn't really happen, that it wasn't the tone of someone's voice as they gave up all hope and choose their fate as death.

I looked at the name on the cross. Boone Carlyle.

'_Boone, get out!'_… Boone Carlyle...

Was it even remotely possible that I was hearing whispers of the islands memories? The wing in my pocket began to burn with heat and weight, and I plunged my hand into it to retrieve it. I felt the metal, the sensitive pads on my fingertips reading it.

It was cool, yet burning at the same instance. How could that even be possible? I slid off the rock and onto my knees. As bizarre and ridiculous the idea was, the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I had felt that there was something about the island the first time I set foot on it. That it held a dark secret, or perhaps many.

It was a memory island, I gathered. It had held the adventures and events, both good and bad of all its years and occupants. The idea seemed crazy even in theory, much less in reality, even to me. But it was the only thing that seemed to explain why the whispers seemed so real. I placed the wing ceremoniously on the mound of dirt, noticing that small blades of grass and unknown vegetation sprouting up from the tiny pebbles of dirt. I smiled. Where there was death, there was always new life.

The malevolent irony of Mother Nature.

I got up, vowing to myself that I would not look back. That I would leave the island as it was, not making it suffer any more then it already had. Not burden it with any more memories. I got to the edge of the beach before I had to turn.

"Rest in peace," I whispered, knowing that even if they couldn't hear me, the island itself would, and it would remember. I followed the shoreline, dodging the increasingly rowdy waves. When I jumped to dodge a particularly savage one, I landed on something, feeling it through my shoe. I crouched down and bent over, using my hand as a scoop to remove the wet sand. I uncovered a small piece of metal just as the tide came in and engulfed my hand and feet in salty ocean water. I gripped the small metallic object in my hands, and brought it up through the water.

It was a small, silvery key, the kind used to open a briefcase that was used to carry something important. I had no idea how I felt it through my boot, but didn't bother pondering on it. I felt the key in my hands, tuned it, played with it, and knew that it held secrets just like the island did. I also knew that it wouldn't be able to tell me any of them, unlike the island had. I still carry around the key to this day, before in my pocket, now on a silvery chain that I'd bought myself. But it was always by me, reminding me of the island.

Of the few secrets it had shared with me.

And of the ones it still burdened with.

I reached the ship just as the sun was setting in a magnificent portrait painted across the open sky.

"Where're going home," I told the beefy man that had earlier encouraged me to go off and explore the island. There was no way that I could now build on the island. There was no way I could wreck its beauty, pollute its water and air. It had gone through enough already, and I didn't want to destroy the island the same way much of our world was now being destroyed. The beefy man could do nothing but sulkily pack up what surprisingly little he'd managed to carry over. He had no choice but to, I was the one funding the project, so I called all the shots.

I leaned over the back railing of the boat, a foot propped up on the freshly varnished middle beam. I watched the island until it disappeared into the horizon, almost positive that I would never encounter it again. It was more then just an island to me now, it was more then just an island to many people; it was a gatekeeper, and confidant.

Yes, I thought as I watched the propeller create hypnotic waves with its spinning blades, wondering if they would ever reach the island.

Yes, the island was a confidant.

People had laughed there.

People had fought there.

People had cried there.

People had died there.

People had Lost themselves there…

People had Found themselves there…

And the Island remembered it all.

**-Cohen101-**

**-Lost-**

**-The Confidant-**


End file.
